On a Cold Dark Sea(62)
But there was something odd about the scene, too, something Charlotte couldn’t put her finger on until she’d watched for a few minutes, half listening to Georgie drone on about landscaping. Slowly, eyes darting back and forth, she realized that it was mostly men at the party, and that one was grabbing another possessively by the arm, and others were whispering close up against necks and ears, exchanging complicit smiles. Charlotte was more worldly than she’d been aboard the Titanic; she’d been to theater gatherings where costume designers and male dancers linked hands in back corners. She knew such things went on, but they occurred in a shadowy, alternate world. She’d never seen such behavior indulged in so openly.
If Georgie’s open house was turning into that sort of party, it would be best if Charlotte made her excuses and left. And yet she couldn’t quite pull away. She looked at all those lovely young actors and singers, so alive they were practically shining, and she felt an unbearable sadness that the person who most deserved to be here wasn’t standing next to her.
“How Reg would have loved this,” Charlotte murmured.
She could picture him so clearly: giving her a devilish smirk, pulling her by the hand. Come on, Lottie, time to join in the fun, he’d say, and she’d go, because following Reg was like leaping onto a carousel. She’d never met anyone who inspired her to be so freely herself.
“Do you think of him much?” Georgie asked quietly.
“No, not really,” Charlotte said, ashamed of her disloyalty. “You?”
Georgie only mumbled, a sound that could have meant “All the time” or “Now and then.” Charlotte kept looking at the party, unsure how far this conversation should go.
“It was easier not to look back,” she said, explaining to herself as much as Georgie. “I was so angry at him, those days before . . . before he died. It made the grief that much worse, knowing we’d parted on bad terms.”
Georgie had to know what she meant, though she couldn’t bear to face him and see it confirmed. He’d been there, after all. He’d heard Charlotte sputter out her refusal when Reg begged her to help disguise Georgie in her clothes. He’d seen Charlotte turn away, bristling with rage; he’d watched her ignore Reg even as he pounded on the window and stopped the lifeboat that saved her life. If Charlotte had known those would be her last moments with Reg, would she have behaved differently? Would she have thanked him as she stepped through the opening in the shattered glass? Charlotte hadn’t said a word; she hadn’t even looked back. Her pride had meant more than the kindness of a final goodbye.
“You needn’t feel bad,” Georgie said, and at first Charlotte didn’t understand what he meant, because she’d always feel bad, for the rest of her life, for how she’d treated Reg. “Reg’s ludicrous plan to dress me up as your sister,” he explained. “I’d never have done it, even if you agreed. I wouldn’t have left him.”
But I did, Charlotte thought, and she stared very fixedly at the dip of the land in the distance and the shadows of the trees stretching across the grass. She mustn’t start blubbering in front of Georgie.
“I saw your mother,” Charlotte blurted out. “Two weeks ago.”
Georgie looked perplexed, as if Charlotte had spoken in a foreign language.
“It’s the reason I came to see you—I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right from the start. She thinks you’re dead, of course, and all this time, she’s wondered what happened. Whether you suffered at the end. She knew about you and Reg, and she’d seen his name on the survivor lists afterward, and she’d always wanted to find him and ask him, but she didn’t dare do it while your father was alive.”
Charlotte knew she was speaking too quickly, like a child defending herself against a punishment, but she wanted to be finished and on her way.
“My father’s dead?” It was impossible to tell what Georgie was thinking. His face was utterly still.
“Oh dear, I wasn’t thinking . . . yes, last year, I believe. Your brother as well. In the war.”
It felt wrong to be telling him these cold truths in this setting, with their faces lit by the amber glow of the late-afternoon sun. A house like Georgie’s was meant for dancing and champagne toasts at dawn.
“I heard about Tom,” Georgie said. “I’ve made discreet inquiries about my family from time to time. Anonymously, of course.” He sighed, gathering his thoughts. “Tom bullied me horribly when we were children, but other than that, he wasn’t a bad chap. Just the sort to throw himself against the German front line for the sake of his country. It must have torn Father up, though. Tom was always the favorite, for obvious reasons.”
“It tore up your mother as well. But she told me it was much harder on her when you died.”
“Did she?” Georgie seemed genuinely surprised.
“Her solicitor wrote to me, at the paper. There are still some places—legal forms, that sort of thing—where I’m listed as Mrs. Reginald Evers, and I suppose that’s how he found me. Your mother asked me to visit, and I put her off forever, but eventually I felt guilty about ignoring her and arranged a visit to The Oaks. She’s practically a recluse—never goes out, hardly sees anyone. She’s got photos of you and Tom all over the sitting room, and she kept wanting to tell me about her ‘darling boys.’ I felt quite sorry for her.”